Breath
by SpockLikesCats
Summary: Spock has lost his world, his mother, everything that surrounded him as a youth, yet he has maintained his composure in public for months. After Uhura's dangerous mission, he confronts loss. How will he deal with the possibility? This story is dark and light, isolation and the love of friends. Set in lead-up to STiD but not in the comics-verse. Cover Art by Linstock (Thanks!)
1. Chapter 1

An episodic story, happy and un-. ST 2009. Mostly PG-13 rated, some R+. Told from different points of view and the omniscient POV. This story takes place before "Star Trek Into Darkness" … I hadn't seen it yet when I wrote the majority of this. I've made alterations here and there, but the character arc differs a bit from that in the film.

_**Disclaimer:**_ _ So far as I know, this is original work except for the characters and setting of Star Trek. Written for love; I make no profit from fan fiction. All Star Trek characters and settings belong to Paramount/CBS. Reader reviews are the only 'profit' I get. _

**Characters and Pairings: **Spock/Uhura, Kirk, McCoy, Gaila, Cupcake, M'Ress, et. al. Thanks to Linstock for important suggestions, to AquaSoulSis for ensuring story flow, and also to Spockside.

**Possible triggers/warnings:** none of the usual; but this story deals with PTSD and physical risks to characters. Also the F word, a staple of Fleet life.

**Part I**

**Spock.**

I had often noticed the vivacious fourth/class cadet walking with fellow cadets on the Academy grounds. In the Spring of that academic year, she took my Level Two Xenolinguistics class and was the top student, challenging me at every turn; she was always first of all the students to correct me when I made an intentional error. Others would look about them, hesitantly considering raising a hand – not Uhura.

At the end of one somewhat contentious class I gathered my materials, preparing to leave, and saw her gracefully departing, her long hair swaying with her energetic turn out of the classroom door. In that movement, in that moment, my attraction to her was sealed.

In any sentient species males are acculturated to certain female characteristics; in Vulcan culture long hair worn by adult women facilitates affiliative and intimate behavior between the female and the male.

My fingers arched in desire; I could nearly sense the locks of her hair between them, feel it falling over my hands. My lips parted – I quickly sobered my expression – I left the classroom. In the weeks since the semester had begun, my eyes had beheld her form and movement, graceful enough to rival any female Vulcan ceremonial dancer. My mind had acquainted itself with hers, a wellspring of ideas and intellect enough to test my powers of debate. I had come to appreciate her generosity and loyalty – she tutored her less-accomplished classmates in her off-duty hours and from all I had heard she was a good friend to many cadets, encouraging, exhorting, helping them excel. My soul had perceived her attunement to beauty; she brought that to bear in many languages. Her precision in scholarship appealed to my Vulcan mind. And now I dared hope her kind eyes and ready smile would someday soothe my Human heart.

**Spock and Uhura.**

"Yes, Commander, but in the _Kamuliun diul_ dialect we are using, wouldn't the phrasing gestures be …?" and Uhura stood, and moved with great fluidity, her gestures and her eye movements perfectly – and diplomatically – conveying the message his class were discussing. Everyone was attired for the lesson, wearing body-clinging clothing and going barefoot.

He moved to stand before his Teaching Assistant, repeating each movement, but adding microexpressions, fingertip curvatures, a slight head tilt, the curl of the right toes, and for her alone, an eye blink. She smiled – a Human expression – quickly stifled it and replied, in a more obscure _Kamuliun_ dialect, known only to him, her, and possibly the Andorian student Thaliv, the message, "You challenge me. I like that. Your proposal interests me."

**Spock.**

Her lips and tongue left a cool trace of moisture, which with the air combined to sensitize my skin. She had asked me to stay perfectly still as she unfastened my black tunic, bit by bit, and first kissed my jawline, then below to the hollow at the base of my throat, her fingertips gently stroking there as the fasteners opened. Her nails tickled the hair on my chest and I trembled, then held my breath, surrendering to her completely.

[1]

**Uhura.**

I love it when he strokes me.

His smooth hands, hot as Vulcan, moving up my side, over a shoulder, down a leg … fingertips just barely skimming my skin's surface, tickling, but in the most sensuous way.

When we sit together in private, his fingers gently smooth my hair, or comb through it, or his hand lightly rests on the nape of my neck.

His blunt-tipped nose, slipping along the slope of my neck into my clavicle to kiss me there, his warm lips tracing my throat, my chin … the soft puffs of air from his nose against my skin, his breath, thrilling me as its moist warmth touches my lips, which I open to join him in a kiss.

His mouth skims my jawline and stop at my ear where he whispers intimately in the Old High Vulcan dialect. A language only I, of all his crewmates, can understand.

**Uhura.**

In another universe, perhaps she was born a Vulcan; certainly sometimes she wishes she had been. Spock can be infuriatingly silent when she wishes for him to share his thoughts; he will sometimes draw his mind in upon itself – secreted from her tenuous mental contact – when he has had what for a Human would be a distressing experience. Spock's meditative silence after such events seems to allow him to gain his usual equilibrium.

She has to get used to him holding back. She has to. Their relationship is too precious to her. Perhaps over time his trust will build to a point where they can fully bond, and hear each other always, sharing thoughts more easily than words. As it is now they're able to "nudge" each other and, when touching, they can link temporarily.

One day in the Mess she hears Anna Leung saying nearly the same things Uhura's been thinking. Leung's talking about her human mate, Stefan Spee. Both work in Comms Engineering and have had some trouble talking things over with each other since their first date. (They seem to have even a tougher time than she and Spock do.) "He's an expert communicator but he never talks to me when he's upset about things!"

Uhura feels a laugh bubbling up. She stops by the table, catches the attention of Lieutenant Leung and her lunch companion, and leans in a bit, nodding in solidarity. Leung smiles at her. "It's good to know I'm not alone," Uhura whispers, then joins Spock for lunch.

**Uhura.**

"I think the preliminaries went pretty well, Captain," Uhura says into her communicator. The landing party is paused outside the presidential palace on Al'Rugh where Uhura has just led a small group to begin discussing Al'Rugh's plans for dilithium sales to the Federation. As the planetary government is negotiating membership in the Federation, they wish to solidify their ties by being an exclusive supplier of dilithium crystals to Starfleet, the Federation Merchant Marine, and other groups that use the mineral to power their warp drives.

"The governors actually had some Standard-speaking staff members. They're not yet in good practice, so it's best you bring a translator when you come down tomorrow. Mishatrex, the senior governor, looks forward to meeting you."

"Great," says Kirk. "Take some time to look around the markets and talk with some locals, okay? As we discussed, I'd like to get the big picture from some citizens if we can."

"Yessir," Uhura smiles. "I'm looking forward to it. We'll see you in a couple of hours. Uhura out." She puts her communicator back on her belt and cinches the belt tight around her long-sleeved tunic.

Everyone in the Away Team is wearing cold-weather gear, turtlenecks, tunics, with heavy leggings for the women. With her tailored princess-seamed tunic, Uhura feels feminine enough to be happy in the uniform. She wishes it was warm enough here to have worn her cap-sleeve dress, being proud of her muscular arms, but on the other hand, likes having rank stripes, which seem to necessitate long sleeves. (Through the chain of command she's requested – and suggested a style for – an epaulette design for the cap-sleeve dress that would allow for rank display, but so far has heard nothing from Starfleet.) She dislikes making the choice to wear the dress with no rank or the rank-sleeved "feminine style" tunic and leggings or the "floppy" tunic and trousers, but is proud of her body and vain enough to opt for the dress when onboard the Enterprise.

She's not lost in thought about this, though; she's scanning the people, looking for some likely folk to speak with, and maintaining awareness of the surroundings, per Away Team protocol. They head for the agora and begin looking at the various wares on sale. From the corner of her eye Uhura spots some fabric she'd love for an off-duty tunic, and some that would make a lovely robe, but as head of the team, she'll have to put shopping off until tomorrow. Hong and Shange are at the spice stall; both love to cook, and are chatting with the vendor. Ramamurthy, the Science officer assigned, is checking out the minerals on sale, and Trinh, the Security officer, is, like Uhura, keeping a watchful eye.

Suddenly Trinh is focused on something across the plaza, about to draw her phaser, and Uhura calls the team – "Away Team to me—!" and, scanning for cover, is joined by Shange, Ramamurthy and Hong; she leads them with haste to a low wall, the only cover close enough, and sees an old-style phaser beam lancing out toward Trinh. She returns fire, on "stun," and the phaser beam stops; shoppers have scattered, seeking cover of their own, and another phaser beam comes toward the wall. Uhura gets a brief blast from another phaser on her neck, grunts and fires back; Trinh is running full-out to the wall and rolls behind it. Hong stands up to give her room. "Hong – get _down_," Uhura snaps in command voice, but he doesn't hear her. _First exposure to live fire_, she thinks, her neck stinging like a million bees, and reaches out, repeating her order.

Hong is staring at the place the phaser fire came from and just misses being shot – a new phaser, Uhura notes, _pew!pew!pew!_ instead of a steady phaser sound; _three attackers then_, and she makes contact with Hong's tunic and yanks, her own arm taking a streak of phaser fire, saying "DOWN!" as Hong falls on his ass. Trinh is up and firing back at the phaser wielders, Uhura, arm burning with pain, grabs her communicator up and signals the Enterprise. "Uhura to Enterprise! Emergency – request immediate beam out—" and repeats the message. Several times.

**Kirk.**

"Can you raise her!?" Kirk demands, turning his chair to glare at Ensign Sivahn, at Comms. Uhura's first attempt to raise the ship after briefing Kirk is badly broken up, and right now there's silence.

"No sir …." The Andorian's face is a pale blue. "Still tryi—there!" She puts Uhura on audio. Kirk dashes from his chair to the Commsta. He notices Spock, eyes intense, is studying him and Sivahn.

"…gency req…immedi…beam ou…"

"Lcdr Montgomery – beam Lt Uhura and her team back to the ship." Kirk heaves a sigh of relief. "I'll meet her in the Transporter Room." He heads for the turbolift.

"Captain," says Sivahn, "Dr. McCoy wants you to meet the team in the Med bay."

Concerned, Kirk frowns and turns to leave the Bridge. Spock stands by his station, his eyes … betraying worry. "Come on, Commander. Your workday's over, isn't it?" Spock nods to Lt Lins as she assumes the watch at the Science station. "Lcdr Ibrahim, you have the conn." Tasmina Ibrahim leaves Ops, supplanted by Lt Jorim, and gracefully assumes the center chair. Spock follows Kirk.

Kirk studies his First Officer as the turbolift starts moving. Usually he doesn't notice Spock breathing but he does now. Spock keeps to attention, his face oriented toward the door, not toward Kirk.

"Pretty hairy down there for a while, Spock. I'm glad she's coming back."

"We do not yet know her condition," Spock says, a tone of censure in his voice.

"Well, I'm thankful she's alive and able to use a communicator. Sorry I didn't ask for particulars."

Spock snaps his gaze toward Kirk, who is suddenly glad he never had Spock as an Academy instructor. The Vulcan's eyes are penetrating and look almost black. _Kinda like that day he almost choked me to death._ His mouth is tight in just the same way, too.

_To Be Continued_

**[1] **Spock's memory of Uhura unfastening his tunic [the third "sketch," told in first person singular by Spock] is based on "Want You," a lovely S/U picture by Goldenrod at DeviantArt. Have a look - the artist has done a few very nice S/U pics.

**/\ Glossary /\**

Agora: open marketplace [from Greek]

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Zero hundred hours: midnight

**A/N:** Dear Reader, please review – it's the best way to tell this fan writer what you liked, loved, or questioned in the story. The third sketch ["Spock"] was totally inspired by HHGoldenrod's art, "Want You." Find Goldenrod at rainboweyeDeviantArt for more visual S/U treats!


	2. Chapter 2

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I]**_

_**A/N: This chapter rated NC17.**_

**Part II**

**McCoy, Kirk, Uhura and Spock**

In Sickbay, McCoy is patching up the team, at Uhura's insistence, junior members first. There are no serious injuries, but one of the ensigns – Hong, Kirk remembers – looks really scared. Spock goes right to Uhura. _What a pair, they say so much to each other with just their eyes._ They're doing that subtle little finger-touch thing that they seem to think no one around them notices.

A stricken expression on his face, Ensign Hong watches Uhura, who's talking with Trinh. Kirk stops next to Hong and touches his shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"I froze, Captain, I froze – Lt. Uhura was yelling at me to get down and I just kept staring at the shooters –" He looks at his feet. "She got hurt because she had to pull me down behind cover."

"She took care of you – that's what the leader of an Away Team does. Dr. McCoy's taking good care of her. And you're alive," Kirk smiles a little, "…embarrassed, maybe. Get some rest and tomorrow we'll practice some Away Team assault scenarios. Lt Hendorff and I'll join you. Sound good?" He raises his eyebrows at Hong, who nods hesitantly.

"You'll do fine next time. This happens to almost everybody at some time or another." Kirk pats the kid's shoulder and looks around.

McCoy has finished examining the other team members with minor injuries and Dr Chaulong is dermaplasing each officer's cuts and scrapes. Uhura is watching over them. Kirk nods to them with a small smile ("good work getting back mostly unharmed") and looks his Comms officer over, as does Bones. Uhura's left arm and neck have nasty phaser burns; her forehead is bruised and cut, and her leggings, worn for the planet's cool atmosphere, are torn open at her right knee; it looks as if she's fallen on sharp rocks.

"Sit down," McCoy commands, and she lights on the edge of a biobed, Spock standing by her, holding her right hand. For a long moment they look at each other.

After giving her a topical spray of anti-infective pain reliever on the arm burn, McCoy finds tiny foreign objects in the dermal and subdermal layer of her knee and dematerializes them with a tight-beam instrument Kirk has forgotten the name of – _I should know it, Bones uses it on me after I've done some recreational fighting at those spacer bars on shore leave and somebody's planted my face in the ground_. McCoy is just starting to sutureseal the wounds when Kirk says, "Report, Lieutenant."

Spock keeps watching her, as if ensuring she is strong enough. She flashes a reassuring smile at him and he lets go her hand to come stand near Kirk.

Uhura sighs. "We finished preliminary negotiations with Al-Rugh's planetary government. They've agreed to our offer in exchange for mineral rights, by the way. They expect you tomorrow at 1400 hours."

Kirk nods and gestures at her arm. He has to step to one side to keep eye contact; McCoy has sprayed the wound on her forehead and is now working on her left arm. "So," she continues, "we left the capitol buildings and walked into the streets just off the palace plaza – that was a mistake. I don't think we should repeat it tomorrow."

"What's going on?" Kirk doesn't want any Prime Directive problems if he can avoid them.

"Some internal squabbles, from what the bystanders were yelling. Before we left, the officials told us about some dissent within the government, and that certain groups in their population were protesting the government's decisions. They warned us away from a 'crime-ridden' section of town – but they didn't tell us there were dissenters who might be armed." An ironic look flits across her expression. "Our attackers were inside the 'safe zone,' by the way; they found cover right at the shopping area."

Kirk frowns. "Lucky you found cover, too." He turns toward Spock. "What the hell?"

Spock looks unusually solemn. "I understood that there was some dispute among elements of Al-Rugh's population regarding dilithium mining rights, but they were being worked out in Council."

"We should be able to pick up more info from news broadcasts," Uhura says. "I got a couple of reports from 'underground' narrowcasts originating in the capitol before we beamed down. There weren't any _official_ reports on the dissent."

Kirk looks at Spock. "Have you heard of any of this?"

Raising one eyebrow, Spock gives Uhura a look. "I had not heard of any armed groups."

"They're probably just scattered factions. There's not an organized force of rebels – they're disparate groups, acting for different reasons. According to the officials, one is an environmental group concerned about dilithium mining. The group that attacked us is opposed to dilithium sales to the Federation. There's another opposed to the idea of their government treating with the Federation – they fear dilution of their traditional religious beliefs."

Kirk says, "But Al-Rugh has been negotiating with the Federation for months."

"The planetary government got a majority to approve the petition to join the Federation; it wasn't unanimous. Now groups who don't agree with the government's decisions are trying to make themselves heard," Uhura says. She hisses in a breath as McCoy begins treating the phaser burn on her neck.

"Apparently." McCoy's voice is acerbic.

Uhura gives him a friendly but quelling look. McCoy rolls his eyes and keeps working. She says, "In our meeting, I got the idea the people opposed to dilithium sales may be trying to make a deal with some non-Federation traders."

"Well, I'll contact the government, find out what the hell's going on."

Kirk looks at Spock. "With your permission, Captain, I will direct the Bridge crew to monitor all communications and activities in the capitol and surrounds."

_You read my mind, Spock._

The commander steps over to the room's communicator panel, presses the button for the Bridge, and Kirk hears him talking softy to Lt Sivahn at Comms. "Search for any signals that may be communications among non-governmental forces." He comes back to stand by Uhura.

McCoy, holding up Uhura's dermaplased arm, glares at Spock and Kirk. "Don't you think the non-governmental forces have given us a signal already?"

**Spock and Uhura.**

"Thank you for meeting me in Medical, _mpenzi_," Uhura said, touching her two fingers to Spock's just before they exited the turbolift. They headed to their quarters.

"The captain invited me, having noted my … concern." Spock punched the entry code and they stepped inside.

She turned to him as the door closed behind them. Spock stroked her face with the back of his two fingers. Nyota's expression changed as he looked at her. Her eyes were troubled, her brow wrinkled with fear remembered and her eyes overflowed. "I was so … I was scared I would screw up the mission."

"I do not think that is what you were going to say, Nyota." He moved his hand softly around the back of her neck. He had detected her fear when holding her hand in Sickbay. She was good at covering her emotions in front of others, but not him.

"I was – " She smoothed his hair and laid a hand on his cheek. "I was so scared I – I thought I'd never see you ag—" She moved in and clung to him, squeezing him tight, her head pressed against his chest. He put two fingers under her chin to raise her face to his, kissing her forehead, grateful for the taste of her, the feeling of her face and her body warm against him. Weeping, she kissed him on the mouth and he kissed her wet face all over, wrapping his arms snugly around her. He lowered his head to her shoulder. Her hair caught on his damp face.

She slipped her right hand between them to the fly of his trousers. Surprised, he felt his lok growing erect and tipped his head back, inhaling sharply; Nyota's left forefinger slipped into his open mouth then moistly traced his lower lip; her eyes met his.

He realized how desperate for intimacy she felt. Her eyes were huge, commanding with need. Nodding at her, he stripped off his tunic and undershirt. By the time he turned back to her she was down to her underwear. She tugged on his hand and lay down on the floor and as he knelt by her she undid his trousers and pushed them past his hips. He had never seen her so urgent; she pulled down her underpants, kicked one foot out of them, spread her legs, and pulled him by the hips onto her with her ankles – she pulled her breasts out from the cups of her bra, put her hand behind his head and lowered his mouth to one nipple.

"Suck," she begged, and as he complied, "Hard .…" She impelled his hips farther up toward her; his lok brushed against her pubic hairs and there was slippery wetness within them; he slid into her and her hips thrust up against him. He raised his face to see hers and tears still streamed down her face; she tipped her head back, baring her throat, and whispered harshly, "fuck me hard, fuck me," and he frowned – she had never spoken this way to him – but he drove into her with strength and she raised on her toes to keep her legs flexed hard so she could smack her hips against his, stroke for stroke, and she cried out with a strangulated sound, grinding into him, biting his lip as he kissed her and said, "Again, again, harder," and he fulfilled her request, feeling a rushing physical pleasure from the biting, puzzled by her suddenly wanting this and the forceful, pounding rhythm.

His instinctive Vulcan sexuality asserted itself, and he nipped her all over; she asked him to bite, not just nip, her breasts – she asked for more, until she bled. She climaxed on a scream, and panting, turned, rising to kneel on the floor and present her rear, and said, "Fuck me from behind." He gripped her hips, positioned himself and drove in – "Slam it," she said, and their rhythm became harder, with liquid noises, and Nyota began groaning and scratching him – he nosed through her wild hair to the back of her neck, still slamming into her from behind, and nipped and bit until he tasted blood from the skin at her nape – "Yes, yes, hurt me," she commanded, straining against him, grunting in orgasm, "Unh … uhnh … UNNGH"and he came hard and quickly.

**Spock.**

Starlight illumined only the edges in the room, indicating the massy shadows of the bed, the couch, the table. Spock, raised on one elbow, studied his _adun'a_. He had always been pleased with their sexual life together. After his short experience with Vulcan girls in the year before he'd left for Starfleet Academy, and the exposure to human women which followed, he had opted for the softer way, appreciating gentle stroking, tonguing, kissing, and prolonging pleasure. This was enhanced, but not rushed by, mental contact. Biting, however, provoked him to respond too quickly – harshly, bruisingly – and ended prematurely what could be an hours-long, mutually enjoyable and sometimes spiritual experience.

He and Nyota also enjoyed vigorous sex, sometimes needing to hurry because of work, sometimes rushing through with physical brio to release the pressures of the day, or as a prelude to the slow tease and explosive climaxes at the end that they both enjoyed, but tonight … Nyota had used crude words to him, and begged to be "fucked," bruised, gripped and nipped hard, she had bitten him to bleeding and shouted hoarsely in orgasm; they had violently copulated four times – thrice on the floor and once against the wall – before she felt easy enough to sleep. Now she seemed unconscious, not merely sleeping. He had released in climaxes too fast to fully experience them; he disliked that he'd been physically harsh to her – he was disturbed by her behavior – and his own intensity and roughness – in the instance.

He now recalled that the desire for forceful, repeated sexual engagement was sometimes the human response to fear, and a near experience, of death.

He understood Nyota's behavior then, cradled her gently, and, raising himself to one knee, adjusted her in his arms and stood to carry her to the bed, covering her with the sheet, kissing her forehead with great tenderness. He left her there and in the sanitary cubicle, took a shower, squeezing shut his eyes, letting the water pound on his face and body.

With a hot moist cloth from the shower and an antibacterial for her wounds, he went out to gently cleanse her body; she slept on.

**Uhura.**

In the middle of the night he woke her, or his grip woke her. She blinked awake to see him, his body rigid, shaking – he was asleep and obviously having a bad dream. At the Academy she'd never known him to have sleep disturbances; these nightmares had started the night after Vulcan was destroyed.

"Spock," she called softly. She touched his face. Her legs and loins hurt. In fact she felt bruised everywhere and her breasts and the back of her neck really hurt. She remembered coming in here after returning from the mission yesterday – under fire on Al'Rugh, she had thought she would never see Spock again. She remembered the phaser beams from old weapons and bolts from newer ones hitting all around her – she'd raised her arm so she could grab Ensign Hong by the hem of his tunic to get him down behind cover – he hadn't heard, or hadn't attended, to her call, "hit the deck!" – and a phaser had burned her. Her skin was all better now, thanks to Dr McCoy, but her psyche was lagging a little behind that.

And now she had bruises all over from … from what she'd told Spock to do. She was embarrassed over how she'd acted but she'd been desperate to feel alive. She'd used words she had never used before with him – or with any other man. She'd urged him to use force, which was easy for him compared with the holding back he usually did with her, to keep her safe, the holding back he'd told her was far more pleasurable than Vulcan-style sex was for him.

"Oh, Spock." She felt sad for having done that, demanded things of him that they did not normally do, for having sullied in some way the sweet lovemaking they had always done before. She felt sad that he had feared for her life when she was on the Al-Rugh mission; it was supposed to be safe but wasn't.

Didn't all hairball Starfleet missions start out the same way? You went down, expecting the usual things, maybe something slightly out of the ordinary, and suddenly an innocuous situation built up to a nearly unbearable degree – thus the term "hairball" – and you dealt with it or failed to live. This was the first Away Team mission she'd supervised that had gone badly. She kissed Spock's bare shoulder, so glad to be back here with him, in this room, in this bed, so warm, so safe … so loved.

His eyes snapped open and he turned to her, and pulled her on top of him, parting her legs; his erection pressed against her center.

"I'm not rea—" she said, surprised at his swiftness. He didn't usually approach her without making his intentions known first. But she realized she was ready, ready as earlier, and slid onto him, and they pounded together again for a few strokes, then, as he fully awoke, they slowed, really slowed, into making love. He held her close for the rest of the night, and she treasured his heat.

_**To be Continued**_

_**A/N:**__ Please take a moment to review – let me know what you enjoyed and/or if anything raised a question in your mind. The best way for a fan writer to improve is constructive criticism from readers!_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Zero hundred hours: midnight


	3. Chapter 3

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I]**_

**Part III**

**Uhura.**

Uhura is on break in the lounge, getting some coffee, when Gaila slips up beside her.

"I've got something for you," she whispers, punching in an order for _soh'lahi_ tea. The Orion herbal blend tastes terribly bitter to Uhura, but Gaila loves it.

Uhura raises her eyebrows as they walk to a couch and settle down with their cups. "It's a box," Gaila says. "I wanted to give it to you for your birthday, but I'm giving it to you early to celebrate … you … that you came back."

Uhura squeezes Gaila's hand. "Well, at least we got the dilithium sales figured out. The captain said my help was crucial during the negotiations."

"Of course it was. It always is! What would they do without you?"

Uhura grins at her friend and Gaila smiles, but there is sadness in her blue eyes.

"You … you're my best friend ..." As she does when nervous, she's twisting one of her red curls around her finger.

Uhura knows what Gaila means. She is good at reading Gaila, always has been. "I'd hate to lose you too." She puts down her cup, extending her arms, and Gaila reaches over and they exchange – as they used to do at the Academy after a stressful event – a "nutritious hug," a long, simple, warm and calming embrace, no patting, just breathing quietly together for a few extended minutes.

When they break it off, they can always look at each other and intuit from micro-expressions – and right now, from the gleam of tears in each other's eyes – what the other one is thinking. And they are thinking, _So glad you're here, my friend._

**Spock.**

The dream is the same. He is holding his mother's hand. But he wasn't holding her hand, he knows. She had stood slightly apart, and had turned to look at him with gratitude for the rescue and in sympathy for the impending loss of Vulcan.

He is holding his mother's hand. And he lets go because Nyota has appeared by him, and introduces herself to Amanda, oddly in this dangerous place ….

And she and his mother fall together, on a scream.

/\

He wakes; he studies Nyota and lifts some of her hair to let it fall through his fingers. His face is wet and he is breathing hard.

She sleeps peaceful in the knowledge that he sleeps beside her.

**Spock.**

I have set the table and prepared Nyota's favorite dinner. I am taking this time because I've begun to sense an ending may come, that I must free her; my mind is weighted with the potentiality of loss.

She enters our quarters as I am lighting the last of the candles. The room is aglow with their soft light. Her smile is gentle as she comes to me, encircling my waist with her slender arms. I hold her and feel as though something flutters low in my chest.

We sit to eat and her eyes continually meet mine; her face is lit with anticipation. Her dark eyes gleam in the soft light, as does her smile, and when we finish she reaches out her hand to clasp mine across the table. "Do you have any idea how welcome this is after the day I've had?" she asks me rhetorically. Her thumb strokes the back of my hand as she gives me a meaningful look.

I hold up my hand in a "wait" gesture and stand to get dessert, a chocolate mousse, which she has said she adores: my consumption of the delicious confection is a clear signal between us that I wish to be completely uninhibited in the hours to follow.

I am. Nyota is such an imaginative and responsive lover; I have been with other human women, but Nyota … is perfectly suited for me. Thus I regret … I will never regret loving her. I regret that I am retreating across a distance; somehow, I sense that this will be the last time I will be fully present with her. I cannot explain this even to myself.

I scent every centimeter of her skin, I taste of her, I give her myself, and even meld with her, hiding my inner knowledge as much as I can, my sense that "this is the last …"

I realize I am memorizing every touch, every look, every moment.

Even unaccompanied by the linking of minds, our lovemaking has always been … transcendent. Something in Nyota and something in me are in perfect accord; I knew this the first time I touched her, that I would be hers, only hers. Yet as I feel our future together – our deep and mutual trust – dying, I lie with her, feel her nipples budding under my kisses and tongue strokes, her lips against my ear as she whispers endearments, her fingertips on my skin, her hair tickling my shoulders as she rides me … the incomparable sensation of her surrounding me, the pang as I release into her and she pulses around me, throwing her head back, sighing, moaning as she climaxes, and my utter surrender to her in this moment, this ephemeral and precious moment.

Afterward, she and I curl together, our backs facing outward, our hands entwined, our foreheads touching, and she falls asleep. I watch her, admiring her facial structure, her slender, muscled body, its endurance clothed in delicacy. How beautiful and timeless she is, how feminine; I appreciate anew how expressive she can be. How she can be what I am no longer. She is strong.

I listen to her breathing; there is a regularity that could be a rhythm, could be the words, _This is the last, this is the last._

/\

I am centering upon my work. My attention is focused there; I have no time for anything else, no thought to spare. Nyota is safe now, and that is all I was concerned with two weeks ago when she returned from her Away mission. Our relationship requires no further attention, no "maintenance"; she has always seen to herself and surrounded me with caring, and that has not changed.

The junior officers in Sciences are beginning to look up from conversations when I enter a space; they quickly change what they were saying, forgetting my aural acuity. They are more concerned about my supervision than ever before – they seem to feel they are lacking in their performance – they are filled with doubt about my reactions to their accomplishments, as if they fear reprimand. As if, perhaps, I am unpredictable.

/\

I dream nightly of childhood, of my home planet.

In these dreams I am always a little child, open to the sights, scents and sounds around me, absorbing our culture: the ever-present dry heat, the market, with its vendors and the produce and crafts on display, the modesty of fine artisans and farmers, and my efficient mother, weighing fruits and vegetables in her hands, considering the meals she plans in the next few days. When we return home I smell incense – Mother raises a finger to her lips. "Your father's meditating, let's not disturb him. Let's go out to the garden." She takes my little hand and I look up into the blazing sky, then off toward the L-Langon Mountains as we step outside to the terrace with its garden corner. Mother goes to the roses and clips a few; she disappears inside to get a vase and brings it out, roses on display, bringing Earth colors to our sere landscape.

When Father emerges from his study to join us, he walks straight to Mother. They exchange the _ozh'esta_, looking into each other's eyes. Mother extends her arm to welcome me in.

**McCoy.**

"What the hell happened to you, Hendorff?"

"I was working out with Commander Spock. He fuc… uh, really kicked my ass."

McCoy dabs some anesthetic liquid on "Cupcake's" face. It's heavily bruised, even the zygomatic arches by his eyes. Spock must not have realized what he was doing. He could have injured Hendorff severely. McCoy checks for fractures, finds none, and says, "Here, I'll just dermaplase those bruises and it should improve your looks, if only marginally."

"Hey, I'm so good-looking nothing could make much improvement, Doc."

McCoy smiles in fellowship. "I hope you gave as good as you got."

"I got in a few hard hits, but he's kind of … unstoppable. He practices _suus-mahna_, and let me tell you, never get a Vulcan pissed off at you. They move faster than cats and hit like hammers."

"Did he seem pissed off?"

"Let me put it this way, Doc. I've worked out with him before, but he's never hit me this hard. Damn."

**Uhura.**

As Spock undresses, she notices heavy bruises on his arms and legs. There are lighter bruises on his face and chest. She is circumspect, but he sees her looking.

"I am perfectly well. There is no need for concern."

"Why didn't you see the doctor?"

Spock gives her a _look_. The look which, in his lectures, used to mean _Continue speaking at your peril, Cadets_. "Again, Nyota, I am well. I will not comment further."

**Spock.**

He notices he is becoming clumsy. In Engineering he takes a step down the ladder and misses. Fortunately he is strong and his hands, gripping the ladder's rails, steady him as he regains his footing; no one notices his slip. He continues slowly down, mentally noting a number of similar instances in the last week.

In a Bridge staff meeting, he fails to hear a query; when he recalls himself, everyone is looking at him expectantly. Kirk prompts him by asking the question again and Spock reels off details in rapid succession as if that can save him. Everyone believes his act but Kirk and Nyota. They look at him with following gazes, as if assessing his fitness.

There are days he cannot bear Nyota's eyes on him.

**McCoy.**

McCoy, Chapel and an orderly are waiting in the Transporter Room for the Away Team to return from Athfer - another mission that wasn't supposed to involve hostiles.

Kirk and Hendorff are holding Spock when they materialize on the transporter pad, saying, "He pushed you out of the way, Hendorff."

"Why'd he try hand-to-hand? When I had a phaser on the guy?" Hendorff says.

"I think Spock wanted to take him by surprise. He was aiming his wrist spines at you."

Hendorff looks pale, and angry. "It was _my_ job to defend us, sir!"

"Spock took the opportunity to distract an attacker, that's all. Don't blame yourself."

"Dammit, sir … all due respect … the commander got hurt on my watch."

"Mine, too, and I'm no happier about it than you are," Kirk says as he and Hendorff settle Spock onto the gurney. Taking readings, McCoy glances up to see Jim glaring at the unconscious Vulcan.

_Are they angry with themselves, or with Spock? _McCoy wonders. Chapel nods at McCoy as if to say, "Let's move."

As they swiftly leave the Transporter Room, Kirk says to McCoy, "Let me know how he is as soon as you get a chance." He heads for the Bridge and the others run Spock to Sickbay.

Under an ultraviolet sterilizing field, McCoy extracts the spines, now a nasty mess of shell-like fragments and stingers. He's able to dematerialize them, but it's painstaking work, as each tiny bit must be completely visualized on scanners and its location tallied for the microTrans, then the sutureplaser, where possible. Spock is unconscious, or in a healing trance; the bioscanners can't read the difference.

As soon as he's finished "de-spining" Spock, McCoy takes some time to analyze the Vulcan's brain scan and sees some neural activity that's different from his baseline readings.

A while later McCoy calls up to the Bridge. Uhura is at her station – Captain Kirk is trying to sort out with Athfer's government what has just happened, why there was an attacker. He pauses to speak with McCoy.

"He's gonna be okay, Jim."

"Well as soon as he wakes up tell him I'm coming down to lecture him about damage to government property." It's an old joke in Starfleet, that injuries to personnel are worse than damage to machinery – injuries are costlier, not only in work hours missed for "repair" and recovery, but also the pain to the injured.

"I'll break it to him."

At last Uhura's able to come to Sickbay. As she sits with Spock, McCoy talks with her about what Spock will need and she confirms his theory about the brainwaves.

"He's in a healing trance," she tells McCoy, her eyes as solemn as they were during and after the destruction of Vulcan.

**Uhura.**

She sits, holding Spock's cooler-than-usual hand between her two hands, adding her own healing thoughts, meditating on the thought of him whole, healthy, and complete. Her mind traces over the last time they made love, the dinner he'd made and the hours after, waking again to make love in the wee hours the next morning, his breathing fast then calm, after, their warm bodies curling toward each other to nap together until they woke to begin their duties for the day.

As she remembers she brings his hand up and kisses the back of it, her lips tickled slightly by the silky black hairs near his wrist bone. She loves these little details of his body, the perfect curves of his upper lip, the way his bangs part when he is sleeping, the softness of his skin, his rough chest hair, the cushions of his sensitive fingertips. His warm breath in her ear.

She sees McCoy pass by and gives thanks; she is glad Spock will whisper to her, that she will feel him again.

**Spock and Uhura.**

"Nooo!" he wakes – again – on a shout. Nyota turns to him and touches his shoulder in concern, about to say something.

"I am perfectly well, Nyota. Please permit me to rest."

"But you're shaking–"

His teeth clench; he turns from her and breathes deeply, feigning sleep.

**Spock.**

She is frightened. I perceive this as I wake from another dream of reaching out to my mother, of failing to grasp her hand, watching her fall to her death. Nyota, curled on her side, away from me, pretends she is asleep. Her arm and ribs quiver, possibly with her silent weeping. At my request she has not reached out to me the last several times I've had this dream. I told her I did not see the point of discussing it, and did not wish her to trouble herself by trying to comfort me. It makes little sense for her to do so; there is no comfort to be found, not even in her arms. We have not coupled in some time; I cannot summon eros. Even seeing Nyota's loving gaze is painful to me now – she longs for something I can't provide – she longs for the man she once knew.

Since the day my home planet was destroyed, I have risked my life many times. I have done so heedlessly, been severely injured several times, and given Nyota much cause for concern. I have no answer for why I have done this. Now there is a wide, dark space in me that runs deep. I cannot fill it with Nyota's love; I cannot fill it with my heedless behavior, I cannot fill it with my accomplishments. I know I am hurting her and still cannot stop. She is not only worried for me, but is devastated by my lack of care – for myself, for her.

**Spock and Uhura.**

"I miss you," she says one night as she lies in bed. He is sitting at the desk, reading computer efficiency ratings on his Padd and making notes.

"I am here, Nyota."

She runs her hand slowly down his side of the bed. "But you're not here. Won't you come to bed?"

His eyes go blank for a moment. Then he remembers, rises, undresses, and joins her to sleep.

She strokes the outside of his arm, traces her fingertips through his chest hair.

Her touch irritates his skin as if painful; physically it is neither irritating nor painful, but in his mind, it hurts. He stiffens.

He knows she is trying to look into his eyes. "Are you sure there's not something wrong?" Her voice is quiet.

But the question slaps at him like the insults of his young classmates on Vulcan _… weak … weak Human … look at its eyes … it's easy to trip, its responses are slow like a Human's … ape boy …_ the slaps, the tripping, their endless kicking of his legs and worse in _suus-mahna_ training … _Why so dull and stupid? Is it your ape heritage? Can't you move faster? What's wrong with you?_ They would ask, and ask and _ask_.

He turns on her swiftly – his eyes let in so much light he knows they must look black; part of a Vulcan's ancient defensive posture – and he grits out: "Please do not. Ask me. Again."

**Uhura.**

She is back from work earlier than Spock, as is usual now. She puts the lights down low and sits, breathing quietly for a while, looking out the viewport to the stars. It's been weeks since they made love, several weeks since he fixed her that lovely dinner. It was shortly after that he seemed to begin drawing in on himself.

She has missed him; he's being reticent, coming to bed long after she does, sometimes not coming to bed at all because "I am Vulcan and I do not require as much rest as you do." He has always gone to bed with her – snuggling with her while, he's told her, setting up experiments, running calculations, writing reports in his mind – unless some emergency or some time-sensitive duty or experiment needs his direct attention, but lately … lately it seems is as if he has stopped taking part in their relationship.

She takes her attention away from this new and constant problem; there is little she can do except care for herself, and one of the things that needs tending is her sensuality, her sexual drive. After a while she sighs, undresses, and goes to take a shower singing an old sultry song, remembering wonderful times with Spock; when she emerges she lies down on their bed and begins running her hands up and down her body.

She begins, slowly, to pleasure herself.

After a few minutes, she is breathing hard - _That's it, that's it I'm almost there_ – but an intrusive thought comes to her mind: Spock's forbidding look during today's Bridge watch. All she had done was invite him to lunch with her as once was usual. He's been skipping lunch, and these days is physically or mentally absent every evening.

Her bodily enjoyment drains away. This … masturbating – how she hates that word – has been only mechanical, physical, and now makes her ache. No other body lying with hers, no other heat, no tickle of body hair, no warm skin or arms, no voice rumbling softly as she leans her head against his chest, no _Spock_; she misses Spock, the man she has come to love and regard as part of herself, half of her whole, as she supposedly was to him.

Her hands are still, fingers lying idle on her loins. Tears overflow her eyes and run down her temples into her hair. _My hair ... he used to tell me how aesthetically pleasing it was and would run his fingers through it, his eyes seeing into mine … now these are_ _things of my past …_ his tongue gently tracing patterns on her skin … his voice, so quiet, initiating conversation or weaving poetry, stories to elicit words or smiles or happy tears … his upper chest vibrating with purrs as he slept.

Her torso feels so tense she cannot breathe. She gulps and inhales; cool air fills her lungs. Turning in the bed, she gathers the covers close around her like a cocoon, and holds Spock's pillow close to her, trying to smell his scent – a faint spiciness remains – and snuggles her head into her own pillow, tears streaming silently until she sleeps.

**Uhura.**

"Hey," says a soft voice at her elbow, the next morning in the officers' mess. "Can I get you some more coffee?"

She looks up, and up; Dr. McCoy is tall, she thinks he may have a centimeter on Spock, even. She pastes a smile onto her face. "I'm fine, thanks."

He sits down next to her then, and leans in close to say two words, ones she anticipates from this source: "Bullshit, darlin'. You come see me as soon as you finish your breakfast. My office. Doctor's orders."

She turns to watch him leaving, walking in that easy lope of his, and can't stop her eyes from tearing up.

Ten minutes later, she's in his office. A hot cup of her favorite coffee sits on his desk by the visitor's chair. She sits and reaches for the cup.

His hand intercepts hers, closes over it and squeezes briefly before he lets go. Her hands are trembling because her eyes are tearing up for real now. She closes both hands around the cup to sip the coffee, trying to school her expression and failing.

"I've made an appointment for you to talk to someone. Michima Tamargo is a psychologist, a damn good one. She's expecting you this evening after your shift is over."

"But I don't need—"

"Uh … yes you do. You may have a little post-traumatic stress yourself after Al-Rugh. And I know for a fact you've been dealing with Spock's … since, oh, since the Enterprise's maiden voyage to Vulcan that time?"

Her eyes squeeze shut – _Vulcan_ – she swallows tears and her forehead wrinkles up. _I will not lose it here, I … will … not._

"You know how Spock can be. I have to wait until I have incontrovertible evidence before I confront him, and I can guarantee it's gonna be confrontational – he'll see to that part, I reckon. His PTSD is comin' to the fore, now, and I think … I think you need to look after yourself. If I know him, he won't bear lookin' after until he's up against the wall." McCoy leans toward her, his hazel eyes open with compassion. "I've seen you lookin' more and more peaked over the last few weeks. I've reviewed your diet – it's been poor lately – and you've lost weight to the point that if there's a strong wind, you might blow away. Unlike Spock, at least in these sorts of things, _you_ possess a lick of sense. So get something to eat after work. And eat it, this time. Michim's expectin' you in her office at 1830. Be sure you get there."

She stands up to hide her face from him, goes to the wall dispenser to get some water, and, her back to McCoy, gulps it down, cool and oh so sweet. She exhales, inhales, and walks back to the desk, leaning in slightly to put her hand on his. Tears still in her eyes, she squeezes his hand, nods her thanks, and leaves.

_To be Continued_

_**A/N: If you'd be so kind, share some comments; they keep us fanfic writers writing and improving. What did you like? Did anything distract or pull you out of the story? **_

_**More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories) there as well!**_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Zero hundred hours: midnight


	4. Chapter 4

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I]**_

Many thanks to Linstock and Spockchick for valuable advice!

**Part IV**

**Uhura.**

I have to meditate. It's driving me mad, hell, _Spock _is driving me mad, here but not here, watching me all the time as if I'm going to say something to set him off, and I'm afraid if I do say something I _will_ set him off, and my mind has been tracing circles in circles. I realized this afternoon on lunch break that I had spent almost the whole hour worrying. Stupid me, eating alone, but Gaila was handling an Engineering emergency, and M'Ress was on duty, and who wants to look at my gaunt distressed face anyway?

Plenty of other people would be sympathetic –M'Ress and the other two Bridge Comms officers are friendly with me – but not like Gaila and I are. I've never felt comfortable airing my personal business with anyone but Gaila because she's been through it all with me. We were roommates when Spock and I fell in love. She's seen us from the beginning and at every stage of our …. _What is it now, an affair? A former affair? A once-in-a-lifetime love that's over and dead?_ Our love relationship – until now – has always been rock-solid but discreet (because Spock is the First Officer and I'm a Department Head); only Gaila understands how sacred I hold our secrets, Spock's and mine. As for working with him … lately that's been awkward.

I realize how alone I truly am on this ship. Len McCoy would listen, but he'd feel torn between friendship and his professional position as Chief Medical Officer; he'd feel he needed to refer me back to the psychologist, who's quite good, but I need more at this moment. I need to stop discussing and worrying about my problems, I need to set my mind free of them for a little while, and I know (and Dr. Tamargo has told me) that meditation is one of the best ways to do this. God knows dancing hasn't worked to release my anger. Kickboxing, yeah … later. That will get my body tired and ready for sleep. But right now I just need some freedom ….

I go to my closet and get out the box Gaila gave me after my mission to Al'Rugh, things I'd forgotten when boarding Enterprise for the second time at Earth, after repairs of the damage done by Nero. Inside is the _asenoi_ – red and umber, terra-cotta and golden, the colors of Vulcan – the artisanal clay "firepot," that Spock got for me from the Vulcan artisans near the Embassy in San Francisco. Since Nero – and until recently – Spock and I have meditated together, sitting before his _asenoi_.

And here is the incense … he brought this to the Enterprise from the collection he had at his apartment off base; it came from Vulcan desert plants and smells heavenly. Just its scent brings back our hours in these quarters, sharing meditation … and those early, delicate and lovely evenings when I would leave the Academy to visit his off-base apartment and find him meditating …

My commander. My professor, then mentor. My lover. The days when we discussed our different personal histories and ways of thinking, when we wandered through fascinating conversations as if traveling a landscape … the days when he and I were first discovering each other's bodies, and the way he took his time with foreplay until I was inwardly screaming for him to _get – in – me – now_.

He didn't teach me meditation – he didn't bring me the incense – until after Nero.** I had never really thought I needed to meditate before but then we suddenly needed to find peace, together – I inhalel sharply to compose myself in this moment – it is so hard to be composed nowadays – and send up a prayer Masa taught us after Baba left: _Ee Mungu nguvu yetu_ – oh God you are our strength.

Yes – now I must constantly look outside myself for strength.

**Spock.**

I have tried to meditate without success. I can count my breaths, but find no stillness. I have no need to master my feelings; I seem to have no feelings at all. Lately with Nyota, I have been "going through the motions." I am apart from my normal sense of self, as if disconnected by a transparent wall. I know who is on the other side but cannot reach him. He is not so distant, he has flashes of humor; he is Vulcan without the cold exterior, at least in private, but now I resemble my father in aspect, the father I recall from times in my childhood, the forbidding monolith.

Now there are only the five senses. Except for performing my duties, my Vulcan mind seems dead, the telepathic connection with Nyota is useless now; there is nothing left to communicate in that way. I hear, acutely, murmurs about all that "seems wrong" with me, I hear my world crumbling; I see evidence in my acquaintances' brows wrinkling as I walk by, my juniors straining to understand what I require of them; I smell the scents of my home world everywhere on the Enterprise, where they do not belong and never were; I touch cold bulkheads and panels, perceiving warm rock; I smooth my hair so it lies correctly, but feel disheveled; I check my uniform's appearance constantly; I taste ashes, ashes of what once was, carrying the scent of Vulcan.

**Uhura.**

I wipe a tear that has seeped out of the corner of my eye. I wipe the back of my hand on my uniform.

_Okay, do the things that precede calm. Dress in your meditation gear – leggings, your small soft t-shirt, your meditation robe. Put the incense in the bowl and kneel. Place the __asenoi__ before you with reverence for clarity of mind. A few deep breaths before you light the __pakuv vil-yai__. Assume the __loshirak__._

I light the incense, assume the lotus position (only Spock can hold the _leshrik_, kneeling posture, for long) and holding my hands palm-up, open at my knees, middle fingers and thumbs touching, I breathe. _One._

This is not counting, although it can serve as such; it is an affirmation that I'm one with my higher, wiser self, that I'm one with … him, that I'm one with my family/my friends, with this crew, with human- and Federation-kind, with all the races of the Universe, capital U. That we all breathe, that we all share breath.

After what seems like half an hour, but is probably far less time, I begin breathing deeply and peacefully, free of shallow thoughts, in contact with the endless depth, height, and width of the universe—

The door slides open, surprising me. It's too early for Spock to get here; he's not been here before zero hundred hours for weeks and weeks.

Spock stands in the doorway for a second, then strides over to me. The energy coming off him is making me tremble with apprehension. I'm frozen, stupid with fear, in a way I would not be in my professional life.

He snatches up the _asenoi_, pinches the ember off the incense, yet the smoke still fills the room. "What are you doing with this?" he shouts at me. Yes – _shouts_.

I've been so stressed I can't recall my private decorum with him, but lately he's violated that over and over. I smell a whiff of burnt flesh. _How dare you?!_ In a flash I jump up, reverting to sailor talk, scarcely knowing I'm shouting back at him: "I was trying to meditate, you clueless moth—" I'm actually about to say _motherfucker_, that couldn't be more wrong –– "what the _fuck_ is wrong with you!" I'm shaking with anger now.

He says nothing, just stands there in a towering rage, his eyes as black as I've only seen them twice before, recently when I kept asking him what was wrong and the time he almost killed Kirk. I hear a deep … snap, a crunch, and glazed red pieces of the _asenoi_ and green drops of blood fall to the deck as Spock stalks out the door. I run out the door, but away from him, in a different direction, sobbing with every breath.

/\

He has come back to our quarters and cleaned up in my absence. I see the broken _asenoi, _in the box in which Spock originally gave it to me. When he left in a rage, I ran straight down to the gym to kickbox until I was exhausted. I've returned sweaty and tired to see him sitting at the desk, his back perfectly straight, and I'm sick of him not looking at me when I come in and his remote expression when he _does_ look at me. I shout at him from the bottom of my gut.

"How can you continue to do this?! To me – to _us!_ You're not just neglecting our love – you're doing whatever you can to destroy it!"

Spock stands and examines me. There is no scrutiny like his. His eyes take in every centimeter of me, from my feet up to my angry, teary glare.

"You are unhappy."

It's as if he's forgotten an hour ago when he broke the firepot – when he crushed it in his bare hand.

** see my story, The Way Back

_**To be Continued. **_

_**A/N: **__A short chapter, I know. The ones to come will be short or long, depending on dramatic flow. _

_**If you'd be so kind, share some comments; they keep us fanfic writers writing and improving. What did you like? Did anything distract or pull you out of the story? **_

_**More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories) there as well!**_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

Baba: father

Ee Mungu nguvu yetu: oh God you are our strength.

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position, seated, knees wide apart, lower legs folded against inner thighs, feet tucked, soles up, into the fold of the opposite inside knee.

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Zero hundred hours: midnight


	5. Chapter 5

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I] Many thanks to Linstock and Spockchick for concrit.**_

**Part V.**

**Spock.**

"Oh, you are a master of perception." She approaches me and stops just in front of me, her arms folded tightly about her to minimize her angry trembling, her eyes steady on mine. "But you are not a master of yourself anymore. You are doing things that scare me to death, Spock, and even you don't know why. Won't you please talk to someone? Dr. Noel? Dr. Tamargo?"

"There is little to be gained …."

"You'd be honoring my love for you by caring for yourself," she pleads. "At least try."

"I will not."

She is startled by my outright refusal. "_Damn_ it, Spock—!"

"It is illogical to expend effort in a futile cause."

"What is futile? Caring about your _life?_ Caring about us?!"

"I am fulfilling the requirements of my duty as a Starfleet officer. As are you. That's all that is necessary for us to do."

Her gaze goes flat – she slaps my face.

"Your … effort … is futile," I say quietly, my eyes steady on her. My center is a black void.

She does an about-face, gathers some of her things – including the boxed, broken _asenoi_ – and walks to the door. She looks at it, not at me. "Well I hope when you're dying after your next suicidal adventure that you're happy with yourself. When you see your mother on the other side, say hi for me."

I study the floor as the door slides shut behind her. Neither my mind nor my mouth has any words.

**Uhura.**

_I am wretched, _Masa_. I left Spock because I was so angry I couldn't even think. What a terrible thing I said to him. I went to Gaila's quarters and she held me and I cried without speaking for an hour. She made me bitter tea I couldn't drink, gave me cold water and I drained the glass in seconds._

_I don't know if Spock and I will ever be together again. He doesn't care about anything outside of his duties, not even about himself. I don't want to lose him but he wants to be lost. He wants to be alone. When I've asked him anything about his apparent death wish he's been silent, or worse, dismissive. I love him, or I love him as he __was__. Does that mean I no longer love him? _Masa_, I am so miserable and heartbroken. And the thing is, I know he is, too; the death of his mother and of his planet in such a cruelly useless attack devastated him, it took his foundation out from under him. I tried to be that for him, but now … I can't help. What can I do? Please tell me._

~/\~

_My Nyota, I have no words of wisdom. Your father, who left us when you were so young, was determined upon his own way. When he sent me divorce documents and went with the treasure hunters to planets beyond the Alpha Quadrant, I was broken hearted and angry. How could you and your sister get along without a father? Why would he leave us when we loved him so? _

_You and Upenda were such a comfort to me. You both missed him, but you loved each other, and me, and we were all right together. Do you remember? Those nights when we walked to the beach and the three of us would lie on the sand looking up … your eyes shone with desire and ambition as you gazed at the stars. _

_One night you said, "I will fly on a starship someday and I will see what Father failed to see. Treasure is nothing compared with learning new things and loving people."_

_Later on I met your stepfather and he loved and showed consideration for me, for all of us. And he still does. I love him. I fuss over him and worry about him, and he understands I am caring for him._

_But he has not lost what Spock has lost – his mother – or his whole world. _

_My daughter, I wish I could tell you that Spock will return to you as he was. I hope he will – he is an admirable young man and I saw how much he cared for you. But he is on some kind of journey now, and you can't go with him there. You can only wait – and I know how hard that is for you. You have always made things happen, through your own hard and thorough work, but this time, you must let him do the work he needs to do. You will decide whether to open your arms and your heart to him if he returns. _

_I love you, and my spirit reaches to yours in solidarity, every minute._

Uhura saves her _masa's_ message and looks out the viewport of Gaila's quarters. Her stare is as dark as the feelings inside her. She thinks, _I am so angry with you, Spock, but I will always stay open to you, I will always love you. I can't stop that_.

/\

Uhura sits alone in a privacy-screened area on the Observation Deck where she and Spock used to come together. They would drink tea of an evening, reading, reviewing department reports, researching, or listening to music, sitting together on the couch facing the viewport. She would sit up, Spock's head in her lap, or the other way round. They could be physically close, while mentally concentrating on other things: department reports, projects, reading, or music. Sometimes they'd chat about what they were reading or working on, or listen to music together. Both of them enjoyed the Observation Deck because it was crowded with plants; their fresh scent and their varied shades of green were restful. The couch here wasn't any more comfortable than the one in Uhura and Spock's living area, but they liked this for a change of pace.

She thinks about ordering some tea from the food processor. It would warm her hands, but it'd make her miss Spock. Often in handing each other a glass of tea, their hands made brief contact – his sweet, "private" gaze would meet hers …. _Coffee then. In a big artisanal mug_. She sits down, putting the mug on the table while she orders up some music, then sips the coffee slowly, thinking.

She is here for a few hours tonight because Gaila – as she often did at the Academy – has company.

Gaila has been a big source of comfort. As an Orion Gaila loves body contact, so she is quite the hugger, and as an excellent amateur masseuse, is also sensitive to bodily tension. Uhura is very tense these days, so Gaila urges visits to the Gym where they work out, then hit the whirlpool. Gaila is also getting Uhura to dance with her for fitness' sake; the music uplifts Nyota's spirits and the precision of active troupe-style movement gives her a delicious tiredness after an hour and a half. They often practice a sweeping and graceful and intricately detailed South Asian dance they did at the Academy with Lt. Dixit. Uhura remembers their performance, how Spock appreciated it, artistically and … otherwise.*

Uhura will be able to move into her own new quarters soon. She'll miss Gaila's warmth and emotional openness, even the mess she invariably spreads through the rooms, and the lovely Orion artifacts, textiles and clothing Gaila has collected since joining Starfleet. She'd left everything behind when she escaped the Orion slavers.

Nyota's memory travels over the richly-embroidered wall hangings Spock has in their – his – quarters, the silky red bedspread, his beautifully crafted wooden lyre, the _asenoi_ in which he burns incense or a candle when meditating.

She recalls, too, the spicy scent of the grooming oil he rubs into his palms every morning after brushing his hair, to smooth its surface and keep it neat. His large, capable hands, flashing briefly over his silky black cap of hair. That haircut that all her girlfriends at the Academy called "stupid-looking" – somehow Uhura never found it stupid at all, because her dear friend and lover wore it thus.

She misses his body – the sight of him undressing and putting his clothes in the refresher with not a motion wasted, the way he sinks directly into meditation posture, his graceful movements; the way he so easily lifts – _lifted_ her and held her to him. How secure she felt in his strong, gentle arms, how tender he could be. She misses the way he would _study_ her, love in his eyes, and the sharp breath he would take when she tongued the tip of a pointed ear. Walking by him as he sat on the couch she would sometimes reach to touch his hair, and he'd wave a hand as if at a pest, but the look on his face was always one of indulgent affection.

She remembers their early days together; they'd gone on about thirty dates before making love for the first time. She recalls her thrill at catching sight of him when they met off-campus at a park or in a restaurant – his absolutely correct posture and his assured bearing, and, once met, his gentlemanly manners, learned in many years of ambassadorial visits with his parents. His warm hand lightly on her elbow, a hand on her shoulder or touching her upper back to help guide her through a crowd, the sexual significance of a glance shared with her in public.

Her thoughts leap from one recollection to another.

The first time she asked him to remain still while she undressed him, loosening the fasteners of that dead-sexy, high-necked, form-fitting black uniform – how his mouth opened slightly as his eyes closed with feeling her hands on him … she could still feel his heat, the tickle of his chest hair and the smoothness of his skin, hear the raspy depths of his voice in moments of passion –

Tears track down the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth; she licks her lips and touches her wrists to her eyes to dash the moisture away.

**McCoy.**

"Spock, I'm not asking. I'm _ordering_ you, as your Chief Medical Officer, to get down to my office."

The Vulcan – half-Vulcan, but more Vulcan these days – strides in, perfect posture and all, and stands at attention in front of the CMO's desk.

"Siddown, Spock."

"I prefer to stand." _No honorific, even_. Spock is definitely acting more reserved and weirder than usual.

McCoy smiles his nasty smile. "Well, your CMO says sit the hell down, so plant it." He points at the chair in front of his desk, deliberately placed there because he's about to exercise authority over Spock, and he knows that after years in the service and at the Academy, Spock is sensitive to human body language and furniture placement.

Spock sits. _Crissakes, he looks like a plebe, braced-up-chin-into-chest. He's defensive, all right_.

"Commander Spock, I'd like to address a couple of matters of a personal nature."

Spock's looking straight ahead. _What was it they always used to bark at me when I first reported? "Eyes in the boat!" Yeah, that._

_Damn, those eyes are cold and remote. No wonder Uhura's heart is breaking._

McCoy raises what Chapel calls his Disruptor Eyebrow. "Do you have any idea what matters those might be, Commander?"

"I do not."

McCoy leans forward and says in a reasonable tone, "For the second time I'm ordering you to go for counseling. Now I know we don't have a Vulcan Healer on board, and I've asked for one to be assigned, but for now I'm askin' you to muddle through with a Human. Dr. Noel's been studying Vulcan approaches to psychology so she can work with you. If you refuse again," he slaps his palms on the desk and half-stands, still leaning in, and lowers his voice to threat-level – "I'll need to tell Jim, so he can _order_ you."

Spock raises his own eyebrow, the Supercilious Bastard one, and says coolly, "From your tone and your air of hostility I would presume you needed counseling, Doctor, not me."

"Would you." McCoy stands. His height is not inconsiderable. He's at least as tall as Spock. "Let me tell you something. You're breaking her heart, you Vulcan _idiot_."

"Your logic, if I may use such a word in relation to you, eludes me. The heart is a muscle and cannot break—"

"Lieutenant Nyota Uhura … you know her, I think? Brilliant Communications Officer, speaks over a hundred languages, friendly to everyone, a lovely young woman who's worried sick, because apparently you have a death wish! She cares about you, and she's suffering for it."

"She is … suffering over something I cannot change."

"You can't change? Or won't? You can damn well try."

"I _have_ tried, Doctor; I have exerted myself to achieve peace and have not been able to do so. Human-style counseling – or a human's attempt at Vulcan healing – will be of no use. And I have no wish to die. I wish to continue my service to Starfleet."

Spock, though sitting, is staring him down. McCoy almost wavers, but hardens his resolve when he recalls Uhura's sorrowful eyes and her graying complexion. Her weight loss. Her professionalism when on duty, energy ginned up from somewhere deep and disciplined inside her. The words of her psychologist, which McCoy will not divulge. He is, however, going to share his own observations of the lieutenant with the stupidest genius he has ever met.

Those eyes continue boring holes into him, those fathomless, black-looking eyes. McCoy knows they are brown, but when Spock is being forbidding, his pupils dilate to an incredible degree; it's threatening as hell to some people. It just ticks McCoy off. He paces around the desk to stand right by Spock.

"Look at me, Commander." _Good. Got your chin out of your chest. Now you have to crane your neck a little don't you, you goddamn fool._ "You, sir, can't self-prescribe. Nor can you tell me something won't work for you until you've tried to work with it. Want to continue serving Starfleet? Then serve by learning how to deal with your stress, first. Some way healthier than what you're doin' now. I don't know any specifics, if you and Uhura argued or broke up or what. I know she's livin' alone now, but it hasn't helped her a whole lot.

"When she's on duty, I don't know how, but she's still as professional as ever. Oh, I suppose you are too, aren't you." McCoy's in full ticked-off lecture mode now, and crosses his arms at chest level. "Except lately, when you've come back from Away missions hurt. Sometimes badly. I'm thinkin' about the last one. You had to take some time off to recover, remember?" McCoy starts slowly bending his face toward Spock's.

"I looked at your records, Spock. The only time you've ever gotten badly hurt was three years ago when you saved Captain Pike on Arach IV. Remember? Since then, not a _single time_ have you needed surgery or time off. You've been able to handle everything with that Vulcan mumbo-j—" the black eyes snapped up to his—"Vulcan stuff you do after I patch you up.

"I'm being real polite here, because frankly I feel like punchin' you in the face right about now. Uhura's been doin' the best she can, but she's _grieving,_ Spock. I can see it, and I blame you for it.

"See, if you'd broken up – I know her, she'd mourn awhile, then get herself together, straighten up and sail on. But she's sufferin' because she still loves you, god help her."

Spock interrupts his eye-laser drilling of McCoy to blink.

"It's crystal clear to me, and Jim, and the entire crew of this ship, that you're experiencing post-traumatic stress. And you're stressin' the ones close to you. Now here's what you need to do as a Starfleet officer. It's somethin' professional, Spock. You need to see Dr. Noel – today – or I'll make a report to Jim, and he can decide what to do."

If it's possible, Spock stiffens his posture even more. _There is no shaking that foolish son of a b— …son of a Vulcan. _

Spock rises smoothly, leaning slightly back and away from McCoy, straightening the backs of his knees so slowly that the chair glides back without a sound.

"Very well, Doctor. Report me if you must." And standing to full attention once more, the first officer executes a perfect about-face and leaves McCoy's office.

_Goddamn it, Spock, _the doctor thinks._ You must've fallen out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down._

_To be Continued_

* See my story, _Aaja Nachle_

_**A/N:**__**If you'd be so kind, share some comments; they keep us fanfic writers writing and improving. What did you like? Did anything distract or pull you out of the story? **_

_**More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories) there as well!**_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Stupid tree: In areas of the Southeastern US, there is a rather quaint way of saying someone is ugly. "He must've fallen out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down." I've changed the adjective to fit McCoy's thought.

Zero hundred hours: midnight


	6. Chapter 6

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I] **Thanks to Spockchick for suggestions!_

**Part VI**

**Kirk.**

He and McCoy are having drinks in the captain's quarters.

"Spock is in trouble," the doctor says. He pours a shot of bourbon and sips it. "He's been producing higher-than-normal amounts of cortisol since the Vulcan holocaust. Some immune responses are lowered, his blood pressure – usually close to nonexistent – is up. Some of his higher brain functions are not at their usual exalted levels." Bones tosses off his bourbon. "It's gotten worse since the attack on him in that last Away Mission … if he isn't lookin' like the walking dead, he's lookin' like a thundercloud … for weeks now." He clunks his glass down.

"But Uhura – damn, I really notice it with her. Usually she's right bubbly – if she's not cheerful, she's intensely focused – she 'most always seems to take joy in everything she does. She's depressed. She's seeing Robi Tamargo a few times a week. What she says there is confidential, though."

"That explains it," Kirk says, taking a long, cold draft of his ale and thoughtfully setting the bottle down on the low table between them. "Damn. I was thinking about talking to one or the other of them but was hoping it was all my imagination."

He looks up to see McCoy looking steadily at him, the gaze that means Bones is totally focused.

"On the Bridge, I hear everything around me. It's ambient sound, but I know instantly if there's a change. If something's wrong I get a tight feeling in my gut and a tingle at the back of my head." He massages the base of his skull. "For the past few weeks I've been tense, and while it's nothing a drink or two can't fix, it bothers me."

He leans back in his chair. "Part of it's the lack of words between Spock and Uhura. They used to talk sometimes. Quietly, but easily. Usually I just get a happy vibe from Uhura's direction, no matter how busy she is, and – well, he wouldn't be 'pleased' to hear me say it, but … contentment from Spock's.

"Not anymore though." Pausing, Kirk sips some ale. "Uhura's just … pulled in on herself. Lately her eyes just seem to … give off darkness, and they're usually so … sparkly. And Spock – up till a month ago, he was starting to, I don't know, warm his expression, or be a little more open in his gestures? Not now. Closed off, wearing that 'Total Vulcan' face."

"Post-traumatic stress," McCoy says. "I've been afraid of that for awhile. Other things have happened to confirm my diagnosis."

Kirk looks at him for a few seconds, then nods in understanding. And feels guilt. _Holy shit, how did I not notice it was that bad? Spock's good at hiding things, but what the hell kind of captain am I?_

"Maybe you've noticed Spock's been physically careless lately. You wouldn't think he'd be. But he's needed medical attention quite often in the last few months. I looked back at his record as First Officer on the Farragut, under Pike. He was a lot better at taking care of himself and his teams then, against all odds. He's still taking good care of his _teams_."

Kirk nods. Until McCoy has pointed it out, he hasn't noticed a difference in Spock's professional performance. A few more visits to Sickbay since … when? Uhura's away mission on Al'Rugh, wasn't it? But except for protecting Hendorff on Athfer, and getting his own leg broken, nothing really _serious_. Well, and the Bridge officers' meetings … Spock's been _inattentive_, a word Kirk's never thought of in connection with his First Officer. Jim's been thinking Spock and Uhura have been going through a rough patch, that Spock's been trying to multi-task without success. Now that he thinks about it, he remembers Vulcans are experts at multi-tasking. _Hmmm ... maybe emotions present greater challenges to their minds than facts, figures, calculations, or science?_

"But …." McCoy pours himself another shot of bourbon. "Now it seems like he's trying to throw his own life away. It's not logical, of course – he's a member of an endangered species – but he feels a lot of guilt over something that wasn't his fault – it was _Nero's_ fault – and Spock feels a lot of horror, as we all do, and a deep, deep sense of loss at the death of his planet. I can't even imagine that, can you? If Earth became a – what did Chekov call it …"

"A black hole?"

"C'mon, he used more than two syllables, Jim," McCoy says.

"A singularity."

McCoy looks at Kirk, then down. "Yeah. It's still haunting me."

"Spock prevented that from happening to Earth," Kirk's expression is solemn. He's told Bones many times that he didn't deserve command of the Enterprise, _Spock_ did, and once the high wore off after his sudden elevation to captain, Jim's known it was politically motivated. Hoping the knowledge would temper Kirk's impulsiveness, Admiral Pike told him the Federation Council urged Kirk's promotion to assure the people of the "home planet" that Earth is safely in the hands of a human Starfleet hero.

Kirk has, for months, considered it a slap in Spock's face. Spock has assured him he didn't want a ship of his own, that he preferred the XO slot, because he could continue as Science Officer.

McCoy continues, "So let's imagine for a second. Our planet, our whole way of life, our many cultures, spiritual beliefs, ethnicities, literatures, histories, cuisines, beverages –" McCoy raises his glass, "everything we've been accustomed to, all our lives … our family members still on-planet, our childhood companions, the landscape and homes we grew up in, the cities and towns, forests, oceans, mountains, even the smell of fresh air … obliterated in under half an hour."

Kirk nods, sadly, and to hide the sudden heat of moisture in his eyes, gets up to get another cold one, uncaps it and drinks half of it down, grateful for the taste, the tickle of the fermented bubbles, the chill. He's leaning his lower back on the little bar he's set up in the dressing alcove. He and McCoy call it the drinking alcove. "Man. I can't even understand it, Bones. I had kind of a crappy childhood in Iowa, you know. When Mom got her divorce from Frank she got an assignment on Tarsus IV as a Fleet science consultant. It was supposed to be a two-year assignment for her and a place for us to start all over again as a family."

"I know, Jim," McCoy says in a soothing voice, the voice of a friend who's heard this story before. He always listens because Jim needs to talk it out sometimes, needs to air the darkness inside of him, maybe reduce it.

"It turned into hell. The famine started and all the shit came down. We were all starving ... Kodos was ordering executions by lottery 'for the good of the masses.' Hell, you know all this."

"Hell, I've boreassed you plenty of times talkin' about my divorce. Same ol' same ol' but sometimes it helps to talk about it."

Jim gulps and a tear spills. Bones is his best friend, and as a doctor he's seen plenty of grown men cry. Still Kirk turns his head away and pinches the bridge of his nose, clearing his throat.

It was horrible on Tarsus. Thousands of people died – he can't minimize that, ever, can't forget the terror of the lotteries, the cries of the children and heartbroken moans of their parents ….

"Thousands aren't … aren't the population of a whole planet. Tarsus wasn't …." _You can't compare. You can't. It's not right, it's not __**possible**__._

"And Kodos was stopped," McCoy says, after a minute.

"We were lucky to stop Nero – _lucky!_ … but he'd already killed _six billion people_." Kirk slams the bottle down on the bar suddenly. "Damn it!" His voice breaks. "I hate this for Spock and I don't know what to do."

McCoy closes his eyes and sighs, then looks at Kirk for a long minute. "For one thing, lead by example. Quit taking so many chances yourself. For another, keep him from volunteering for or leading any away teams. And when you can't do that last thing, order him to be careful. And I mean order him, don't just toss off the words. Be as specific with him as you would with the computer."

Kirk glares at his friend. "Knock it off, Bones! Spock is a pain in the ass, but he doesn't deserve to be called—"

With a rueful face, McCoy holds up a hand. "I'm not disparaging him, Jim. What I mean is, be plain and don't say anything he can reinterpret. Spock is damned cagey with Standard, y'know; he taught Xenolinguistics for chrissakes, so he knows how to parse words and make what you've said into whatever he wants you to have said. Just like a lawyer."

"Okay. I see your point. I admire Spock, but he is one … stubborn … man." Kirk sighs, and finishes his ale. "Well – tell him I'm ordering him to counseling. If he wants to dispute it, he can make an appointment to meet me in my Ready Room."

He looks over to meet McCoy's eyes. He and Bones shake their heads and finish their drinks, and call it a night. Kirk broods for long hours after.

_To be Continued_

_**A/N: I know - another short one ... Part 7 will follow soon!  
**_

_**Your opinion is very valuable to me, dear reader. Please comment on what you liked … or didn't. Blessings on those of you who've reviewed. One reader gave me a valuable idea for Part 5, thanks!  
**_

_**More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories) there as well!**_

/\** Glossary **/\

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Zero hundred hours: midnight


	7. Chapter 7

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I] Thanks to Linstock and Spockchick for encouraging advice.**_

**Part VII**

**Briefing Room. **

Kirk is tapping on the table, drumming, actually, with his fingers. McCoy watches; there's an air between Kirk and Spock that's more tense than usual. Spock seems disassociated and it seems as if Jim is trying hard to bridge a gap to communicate with the first officer. Kirk makes eye contact with everyone and begins.

"Okay, so here's the brief from Starfleet.

"Last month R'rau's government told the Federation that they've discovered kressantium in their soil. CSO Starfleet has ordered Enterprise scientists – namely you, Spock and your team – to take samples and analyze the mineral to determine whether it's pure enough for a new … undisclosed … project."

"I have received the purity specifications from Starfleet Operations," Spock said.

Everyone pauses and considers. Normally such specifications would come from the Federation Science Institute.

"No one at Starfleet or the scientific arm of the Federation has told us what it's about," Kirk says, looking at the first officer.

Uhura, always the first to hear about any business concerning Starfleet, has heard that – with Admiral Marcus the new Fleet Admiral (Chief of Starfleet) – FAS is activating sections dormant for many years. She's also heard a not-too-reliable rumor about Section 31, which until now has been a footnote in Starfleet history. She looks at Spock, who has been staring at the tabletop.

"Undoubtedly they intend to research kressantium for classified projects," Spock says.

There's a flash of disgust across Kirk's face; he doesn't like skullduggery any more than McCoy does. Scotty clears his throat and tugs at his collar.

Although Spock disagrees on principle with classified projects, he acknowledges their necessity. Since Nero had come from the future and destroyed the _Kelvin_ over twenty-five years ago, Starfleet has accelerated research and development of new technology. The _Enterprise_ is one of the first of many new ships to be built.

For a decade Starfleet scout ships have been reporting that the Klingons have also been employing new technology, and it is well known that the Klingons seek to dominate their part of the Alpha Quadrant, endangering nearby Federation colonies.

"The Klingons were able to examine the Narada for close to 25 years while Nero was in their prison on Rura Penthe; the ship was equipped with advanced technology, as we know too well. It follows that Starfleet will take precautions against possible Klingon – and other – incursions."

"But _secretly?"_ Scotty says. "I guess it's true then. Admiral Marcus is oriented more toward military defense than exploration." He doesn't like what he's been hearing about the new FAS. Like his fellow engineers throughout the fleet he's been receiving various equipment with directives to make "improvements" to ship security: better hull plating, stronger plasteel for viewports, hardened deflector shielding with new "harmonics" introduced into the graviton fields, and computers armored against intrusion as never before. _Harmonics forfucksake, next we'll be gettin' designs for intrusive comms to broadcast the aul' bagpipes and their tunes of glory to strike terror into the hearts of our enemies._

Kirk says, "Has anybody heard any rumors about the revival of Section 31?"

Uhura makes a face. "Not _specifically_, but … the sorts of things you'd hear around organizing … or reviving … a classified organization."

"Oh _great_, Black Ops." McCoy's sarcasm is just a reflection of everyone's trepidation over the intensifying speed of changes in Starfleet. What had once been described by Admiral Pike as a peacekeeping and humanitarian armada was apparently becoming more of a quadrant defense force.

Spock sighs inwardly, knowing that the destruction of Vulcan, with its six billion lives, was only one of the reasons for this, but it is enough for him to go along, and, Human-like, surrender some of his beliefs to keep his people – Vulcans and Humans alike – safe. If not safe, at least well-defended.

"So, to our business on R'rau …" Kirk says in a back-to-business tone. "Lieutenant Uhura and I'll be going down ahead of the Science Team to meet with R'rau's president to get the clearances we need. Sciences will head down once we're back. Commander Spock, please stay; everyone else is dismissed."

McCoy and Scotty are on their way out first, heads together, conversing quietly. Uhura remains for a second, her eyes on Spock; he meets her gaze briefly and then stands to attention, looking away, ready to hear from Kirk. Uhura stays a second longer, shoots a glance of concern at Kirk, then departs.

"Commander," Kirk says, standing by the viewports, "Come on over here."

Spock blinks, then joins him. "Yes, Captain?"

"You see where we are, right? Standing in the flagship, looking at a planet, one of many in the vastness of space?"

"Yes, Captain." Spock realizes that this rather wooden response has focused Kirk's attention.

Kirk turns to look at him, and Spock is, as he has been in the months since they defeated Nero, a bit taken aback by Kirk's sense of friendship, of his desire to connect on a "human level." He was getting used to it until ….

He has been working with Dr. Noel to learn what has caused him to distance himself from everyone, and is beginning to understand that Uhura's experience on Al'Rugh revived his … fears … of loss.

"I want – and Lieutenant Uhura, and everyone who works with you wants – for you to be around to continue seeing this, to continue _living_, to continue your incredible contributions to this crew and our mission." Kirk reaches out a hand and clasps Spock's shoulder. "We all want you to take care – and I mean maximum care – on your science mission below."

The captain takes away his hand and focuses on Spock, brows raised, eyes intent, indicating he wants to hear confirmation.

Spock nods. "I understand, Captain."

"Good. You're taking Hendorff, Trinh, and the members of your Science staff who are most qualified. And you're coming back in one piece. That's an order, Commander." Kirk says it with a small smile.

"I will act with utmost caution," Spock says.

Kirk nods, and leaves the room. Spock gazes out the viewport for a few moments, remembering his mother's love for watching the stars, and Nyota's remarks about her own stargazing dreams.

He does not want his father or Nyota to be harmed by hearing of his death. He realizes, suddenly, how much he wants to continue living, if only to communicate with Sarek, and be near Nyota, even if he might never touch her again. He is still devoted to her. He misses her, as Mother might say, she who never met his _ashayam_ except over the commlink. He regrets his separation from Nyota, the wall he has raised between them. Metaphorical, yes. But real, in its way.

**Spock.**

Spock wakes alone, truly alone. He does not search for the small spark of Nyota's consciousness that he knows is in the space his mind and hers share.

Her scent is fading from the bedclothes. He has not changed them since she left him, over a week ago. Some of her clothing programs are still here, clothes she does not normally wear, formal dresses; he could call up pictures of her wearing them but does not see the point. The perfume he gave her still sits in the dressing alcove on its small table, with hairpins, some false hair she weaves in for dress occasions and to please him. But he does not hold them near his nose to catch their scent. Dwelling on something that is completed is pointless; and he cannot stop his subconscious from constantly replaying the day he lost nearly everything.

As he lies in what used to be "their" bed, he feels physically comfortable but bereft. He recalls how they spooned together, resting on their left sides, the moderate heat of her back near his chest and belly, her thighs against his, the soles of her cold feet pressed against the warm tops of his own. He can feel her right forearm brushing back to rest near his heart, in his right side. He inwardly hears her contented sigh when they settle into each other for sleep, her soft, soft snore. He sees her right hand gently curled near her chin. The scent of her hair so near his nose, the parting of her lips in sleep, the long in-breaths she would take that reached to, and expanded, the middle of her back, and the long, relaxing exhalations.

He remarked on it once, saying that most Humans he had observed did not inhale so deeply. He used to remind his language students that attention to the breath eased the flow of communication, but he had never specifically trained them in deep breathing.

"But I'm a singer," Nyota said, then lay on her side and took his hand and placed his fingertips to one side of her middle back. She exhaled, saying, "Singer's breath …" As she inhaled he felt her chest inflate all the way down to near her twelfth thoracic vertebra. "I've expanded my intracostal muscles … my diaphragm's giving me a sturdy foundation, so I can sing long, legato, or short, staccato – any way I choose." She inhaled again and sang a long, low note, moved up an octave, sang some descending melismas, then hummed a phrase of a song from her childhood.

As she fell asleep, he listened to her breathing ebb and flow; it sounded like a gentle ocean. He rested his hand on her side to feel that regular, stable breath.

Ebb and flow. Perhaps their couplehood is being tested, and she will come back into his life. He is dubious though; he has lost all sense of intimacy with another – he has intellect, logic, duty, superior ability and longevity remaining to him. He has decided to respect these important remainders of his life; to be useful is a very worthy goal for any Vulcan.

Therefore, for the sake of being useful – not to mention respecting Nyota's feelings, and the orders of the captain – he will observe strict safety protocols on the science survey tomorrow.

His gut yawns achingly, his lips part. His diaphragm jerks, once, twice – it is as if he is clutching for air – he winces and feels hot moisture coming from his eyes.

_To be Continued_

_**A/N: Your opinion is very valuable to me, dear reader. Please comment on what you liked … or didn't.**__** More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories) there as well!**_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Zero hundred hours: midnight


	8. Chapter 8

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I]**_

**PART VIII**

**Spock.**

I am in the darkest place of my life so far. I can barely find breath, I am trying to remember… and my body senses only – pain. What …?

… Scientific survey for kressitium. Sudden strange readings on the tricorder. Hendorff is raising his weapon in response to something – but too quickly I hear disruptor blasts. A female Geskref has just hit three members of our Away Team with two shots. I signal and nod a command to Hendorff and speed off to pursue the Geskref. Hendorff has evacuated the Away Team – I presume they are safe aboard the Enterprise. "Presuming is not good enough," Captain Pike would say. He never had to say this to me; I used to perform most efficiently in all Starfleet maneuvers. If I were James Kirk I would say "I screwed up."

As I give chase I call the Enterprise to ensure the team has gotten there safely. The Geskref (one of a reptilian warrior race, now pirates, whom we did not expect here) fires a shot at me, a beam that sounds different from the others. She escapes from me. Agile, a trained warrior, she darts to the bluff and disappears – I follow – she creeps around a narrow ledge – I swiftly approach her – suddenly my feet and legs feel nerveless and see her smile as I trip, land awkwardly and slip … I plummet downward – as air goes swiftly past my ears, I can hear her hiss into her communicator, the word "kressium," the mineral's name in the lingua franca.

_Impact …._

I am conscious in a suffocating, painful darkness. I cannot seem to begin a healing trance … my training was thorough but my technique is faulty … something—.

**Kirk.**

"He's been out of touch since the rest of the team beamed up! Can't you get a reading on him?" Kirk leaned his hand on the display above her, concern for his friend radiating off him.

"Don't you think I'd get a reading if I could sir?!" Uhura snapped, looking up at him.

"Sorry, Lieu—"

She was still looking at him, eyes glazing over strangely. Suddenly she stood, breathing deeply, apparently unaware of where she was … Kirk moved swiftly to grab her elbow, easing her to the deck as she passed out. "M'Ress – take over Comms!" The captain knelt beside Uhura and checked her pulse. "Bridge to Sickbay! Bones, I need you up here – Lieutenant Uhura's passed out. M'Ress, Jang, keep trying to get a fix – Chekov, help Jang; fine-tune the sensors for a better read on Spock's biometrics…."

/\

Three-quarters of an hour later, Chekov and Scotty have fine-tuned the scanners enough to find Spock at the bottom of a cliff near the transport site. In the Transporter Room the first officer is quickly transferred to a float gurney and rushed to Sickbay. One look at McCoy's face and Kirk sees just how badly Spock is injured; for the first time since he's met him Kirk thinks Spock might die.

His gut tightens as he approaches Spock's intensive care biobed in Sickbay. Almost every visible centimeter of skin is cut, scraped or bruised. The Vulcan is a study in shades of green, dark emerald, olive drab, and seasick green, with brown bruises that look bone-deep.

A display beside the bed in Sickbay shows a representation of Spock's body.

"The impact would have killed a Human, Jim, but Vulcans are made of stronger stuff. Or have sturdier structures of that same stuff. Even major bones are broken, but Spock's skull is intact. His brain is swelling, though." McCoy and Chapel have been bustling around him, starting pain relief, supportive functions, oxygen, and blood cell regeneration.

Chapel begins assembling medical instruments – to piece together all the shattered bones and repair all the damage to Spock's internal organs. Kirk meets Chapel's eyes as she moves to ready the anesthetic equipment. She nods solemnly at him, then greets the anesthesiologist. _This is gonna take a long time,_ Kirk thinks.

Right now McCoy is busy checking Spock's readings on the bed-size medscanner. In moments, with the help of McCoy's expert surgical staff, Spock's gravely injured body will begin its long process of healing.

"I'm going to start surgery very shortly, Jim. Get on out of here and tell everybody to visit … tomorrow maybe. Meanwhile, their good wishes will be appreciated."

"Hang in there, Spock. Bones will do his best for you," Kirk says in a low voice. For a moment he gently rests his fingertips on Spock's undamaged upper arm.

He turns away to stand by Uhura, who lies still on a nearby biobed. "How are you doing?" he says softly, leaning close. He sees her eyes move beneath closed lids but she can't respond; according to the display at her bed she's unconscious, but Kirk knows patients in that condition can still hear – so he puts his mouth close to her ear and whispers, "The whole crew's pulling for you and Spock. Bones gives the best care anywhere. You'll both be fine."

/\

Kirk is gritting his teeth as he leaves Sickbay. He means to start a hunt for the Geskref, wherever they are. The warrior female scout is probably safely away on a ship by now, but the Enterprise has great speed compared with any Geskref ship.

"Lt M'Ress, get me Starfleet Command," he says as he arrives on the Bridge. "And trace any Geskref signals—"

"Lt Uhura already began a track when she detected the beam-out, Captain," M'Ress says, "and we're still tracking."

"I haff de course, sair. Dey are not far deestant as yet, Keptin," announces Chekov.

"Captain, I have Admiral Pike's office on visual," M'Ress purrs. As do most of the crew, she likes Admiral Pike, who was the crew's original skipper, and Kirk recalls, seeing her slight smirk, something about an ancient antipathy between the Caitians and the Geskref, Gorn, and other reptilian species.

"I got your report, Jim," Pike says. "I'm sorry about Ensign Trinh. How are the others doing?"

"They're on bed rest in Sickbay, sir, except for Spock. He's in surgery. It's bad."

"I hope—" Pike pauses, a flash of weariness and sadness crossing his face. "Tell him I expect he'll be better and back on duty soon. As for the Geskref? Bring 'em in."

**Kirk.**

It's no contest. The Geskref know better than to attack a ship like the Enterprise.

"Geskref ship, this is Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. You are ordered to surrender immediately. One of your crew is a murderer." He is brusque, thinking about Trinh and worried for Spock and the injured security officers. Hendorff is grieving Trinh, the first Security team member he's ever lost, and is angry about Spock's injurious fall.

The Geskref captain appeared on-screen. "I so Captain Klessk. I assuredly to you ssurender warrior she what killed yourss officer, Captain," he said in terrible Standard, smiling in a manner Kirk supposed he felt was ingratiating. It was just creepy.

"Captain," Sulu said in an undertone. "They've just launched a shuttle."

"Tractor beam, Mr Chekov," Kirk ordered, and fixed Klessk with his glacier-blue stare. "Really, Klessk? Do you have any idea what you just did?"

/\

**Kirk and McCoy.**

McCoy enters the Bridge, walking past the Commsta where M'Ress sits. They exchange nods as he steps down to the command chair. He's damned tired; the worst of Spock's surgeries is over, but there will be more work to do in the next few days. He gives thanks for M'Benga's advisement from far away, for Chapel and the rest of his skilled and talented medical staff. And Uhura, helping from a place only she and Spock know. Without them, Spock might not have made it. McCoy feels a chill and, folding his arms across his chest, looks at the viewscreen.

"We've charged Captain Klessk and his crew with violation of Federation territory and attempting to disrupt the peaceful trade of R'rau," Commodore Rodrigues says from her office at Starbase 23. McCoy remembers her guest lectures at the Academy – coordination of resources from starbase to starship or something like that. All he paid attention to were the sections related to medical supplies and support, but he is pleased to see her again – she's a contemporary of Admiral Pike's, equally authoritative and energetic. She gives McCoy a quick nod, and continues.

"My investigative team have begun interviewing the crew. Klessk's operatives have transported to various planets in this sector to disrupt Federation negotiations – you recall the splinter groups you reported on Al'Rugh? Klessk's people incited a couple of the groups to attack Federation representatives."

Kirk nods grimly, recalling Uhura's return after that mission. At least now Ensign Hong is more comfortable with landing party defense strategies. Trinh, alas, cannot practice with him. Kirk's mouth hardened.

"Apparently they hoped to end Al'Rugh's negotiations with the Federation altogether. K'sst'klk has been charged with the murder of Ensign Trinh and the attempted murder of Ensigns Ramamurthy and Stills. They're deciding about charging her with the attempted murder of Commander Spock. … How is the commander, Dr. McCoy?"

McCoy doesn't let his weariness show through. "He's gonna have a long recovery."

Rodrigues sighs, looking rueful. "I was First under Chris Pike when Spock was a green ensign. Best science officer either of us ever had the pleasure to serve with. I wish him strength."

"Commodore, I assure you, Spock will do whatever it takes to get better and get out of my Sickbay," McCoy says. "And I think you know as well as we do what a stubborn bas— … Vulcan he is."

Kirk gives him a sidelong look, and McCoy raises his eyebrow at him.

"On Stardate 342.58 we're remanding Klessk, K'sst'klk and the other operatives to the Federation Criminal Court. The crew will be assigned some … guest quarters until a verdict comes down. The ship's going to stay in our custody for awhile to facilitate our negotiations with the Geskref."

Kirk's expression is one of "good luck with that," but he says only, "It's been a pleasure working with you, Commodore."

Rodrigues smiles sadly. "I wish it could have been under better circumstances, Captain. You and your crew must be our guests for shore leave sometime soon."

"We'll do that. Thank you, Commodore, for the briefing and for all your help."

"Starbase 23 acknowledges. Bright stars and clear spaceways, Enterprise." An old-fashioned send-off, but Kirk likes it.

He motions McCoy to follow him and heads into the Ready Room. As soon as the door shuts he says,

"How are they? How's Spock?"

"Ramamurthy and Stills are each on bed rest in quarters. As for Spock I'm … keepin' my fingers crossed." McCoy is characteristically reticent about such things until patients are going to make a full recovery. Having ordered some coffee, he and Kirk sit, sipping occasionally, staring off into space. Maybe they're praying, but at the very least they're hoping Spock will make it.

_To be Continued_

_**A/N**__:__** I am so thankful to the readers who've commented! It's important to me to hear what you liked … or didn't. Your opinion is very valuable to me, dear reader, and helps me improve (be kind.)**__** More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories &c.) there as well!**_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all who are above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Twenty-four hundred hours: midnight


	9. Chapter 9

_**[Disclaimers/warnings at top of Part I] Also – my apologies for posting this so late. I've been ill this week, so much so that I have wanted neither food nor Star Trek. Imagine that! : p**_

**Part IX**

**Kirk.**

"We got 'em, Spock," he says quietly. "We arrested the Geskref." Spock is still in the sterile room, with Ultraviolet rays penetrating everything to keep pathogens at bay. The deep brown bruises are lightening somewhat; the scrapes are healing, but he can't sense Spock, not in the way he usually can. McCoy has told him Spock's got one more surgery to go (he's had two so far), and then at least a week of intensive medical support with another week of bed rest, followed by weeks of physical therapy.

Kirk gently rests his hand on Spock's arm, wishing to convey hope and warmth and support. "I wanted you to know they won't be killing anyone else. Everyone in the landing party is safe now, except Trinh. I think you saw her … saw her die— Hendorff's really broken up about it. But Ramamurthy and Stills are okay."

He's always _still_; Spock moves with great grace and economy, but right now his stillness is different, disturbing, and Kirk, not a praying man, hopes that Spock will get back to normal, that he'll move with that same ease again.

On his way out of the room, he meets Hendorff coming in. They nod, and Kirk says, "He's getting there, bit by bit."

"Yessir. All of us are visiting to … well, show our support."

"I think he knows," Kirk smiles. "Keep it up, as long as Bones lets you."

Hendorff pauses. "Do you have a nickname for everybody, Captain?"

/\

Right outside the sterile room, Uhura lies on a biobed, still unconscious, with lively brain activity. M'Ress is there, in a chair by the bed, and has one of Uhura's hands pressed lightly to her tan-furred upper chest, just below her throat. Kirk frowns for a second, then he hears it. M'Ress is supporting Uhura in her own special way, purring deeply, rhythmically, so Uhura can feel it. Kirk smiles, M'Ress smiles back, and Jim stops for a few minutes to hold Uhura's other hand in his. Chapel stops by with a Padd and makes some notes, and gently smoothes back Uhura's hair, then, nodding at Jim, goes into Spock's room.

McCoy's voice startles Kirk. "It's a regular parade of visitors around here, Sciences and Comms visitors. I knew Uhura was really popular, but Spock?"

"He has charms we never knew of, Bones. And he definitely has the loyalty of the Sciences section."

"Not to mention the whole Bridge crew."

Gaila comes in as McCoy and Kirk are talking, and says, "He's got the respect of all the crew, Captain, and we all love Uhura, so here we are." To M'Ress she says, "I'm stepping in to see Commander Spock – I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Well, don't kill 'em with kindness," McCoy says in his grumpy tone. "Fifteen minutes and no more. And in an hour, visiting hours are over. Pass it on."

Chapel has just come out of the sterile room, and says very quietly, "And don't worry, I'll be with them after visiting hours."

**McCoy.**

Gaila comes in after Spock's second surgery. On his way into his office McCoy sees her briefly conversing with Chapel, then Gaila sits in the chair next to Uhura's biobed and takes her hand. Uhura has devoted friends, himself among them. He's seen the whole Bridge crew, and folks he doesn't often see, many who work "belowdecks" in the CommCen and Engineering, coming in during their breaks or lunch or dinner hours.

McCoy is stripping off his sterile scrubs, exhausted, thinking this week was a helluva time for M'Benga to be at a conference. He has resolved to get a Vulcan Healer on board to help both of them, ASAP. He's acutely aware of how close Spock came to dying, and he doesn't want to do such intricate surgery again without a complete expert on hand – Spock being one of the most valuable officers in th Fleet, it's kind of important to keep him from dying of preventable causes. Sure, he knows Vulcan physiology, but not like M'Benga knows it. Certainly not like a Vulcan Healer knows it. McCoy did his internship and residency on Earth, and the Vulcans on planet had Healers at the San Fran Embassy to help and do seminars at Fleet Medical. While at the Academy, McCoy did some rounds with them, about two months all told; M'Benga did his entire residency on Vulcan.

And something weird is going on with Spock's tendons. Nothing McCoy can define as yet, but it appears to be a problem with the fibers crucial to joint flexion, to movement of the body.

McCoy runs a hand over his forehead and sighs. He's not overly fond of Spock, but he respects him. And he knows Uhura loves him to pieces. _Crucial to keep that going_. McCoy pours himself a drink, and raises the glass in a silent toast. _To Spock and Uhura. Long may they live, together._

**Kirk.**

Kirk is amazed at how much better Spock looks already. McCoy did quite a bit of work with the suture thing and the dermaplaser; Spock's face is looking closer to normal. And Uhura looks like she's peacefully sleeping.

"It's a response Vulcan couples share, Jim," McCoy is saying. "I don't understand it much, but after the disaster at Vulcan, Ambassador Sarek explained a little of it. There was a couple – Sakhar and T'Som – and T'Som was close to dying – her life signs were failing. Sakhar suddenly dropped out of consciousness and I couldn't find a physical explanation. Sarek said he had gone into a healing trance – and was able to lead T'Som to the proper – state of consciousness, I guess – so she could heal."

"And …?" Kirk's blue eyes flick from McCoy to Uhura, who lies … unconscious? sleeping? … on the biobed next to Spock's, then back to the doctor.

"And she did." The doctor nods at the separate bioscanner displays above Spock and Uhura. He points at each one. "See the green lines there? And there? They show shared activity, see how they rise and fall at exactly the same time?"

Kirk smiles, shaking his head a little. He remembers his uneasiness with the subtle undercurrents on the Bridge in the past weeks, Spock performing to his usual freakishly perfect standards, but chilly toward Uhura, and Uhura, courteously responding to Spock as professionally necessary, coolly efficient yet blank beneath the surface, as if sorrowing.

Yet here they are, sharing a form of consciousness.

It may just heal both of them.

**Spock.**

I sense the bright thread of her presence; I know nothing else … I near it, reach it, then rise to the proper consciousness; my breathing and heartbeat adjust; I slip into green darkness, following that delicate stream of light, and I know the way back.

I have reached the one within … _k'diwa_, half of my soul, half of my heart. Nyota.

/\ __**F I N E** /\

_A/N: (For those who aren't musicians, "FINE" is Italian for "End," used in sheet music.) Your opinion is very valuable to me, dear reader, and helps me improve. Please comment on what you liked … or didn't. Please be gentle. I am composing a "Coda," but it will take some time, to "perfect" [as much as any of my work is "perfect," that is] and to post._

_**More angsty stories (e.g. Loss, Trust In Me, The Way Back) at my FanFic site SpockLikesCats; you'll find humor (Put Your Junk in the Box, Sketches of Sparrow) and romance (my Hot Tubs stories &c.) there as well!**_

_**If you are new to fandom, or came into it after the first flourish of good and great fan stories, check my Favorites for some really superb fic!**_

**/\ Glossary /\**

Asenoi: fire-bowl [used for incense]

FAS: Fleet Admiral [chief] of Starfleet

Hir: 'him or her'

**K'diwa: kat'na'l'diwa, half of my heart and soul or "the other half of our whole"**

Loshirak: lotus position

Masa: mother [ki-Swahili]

Ozh'esta: the touch of the first two fingers of each partner's hand, a "Vulcan kiss"

Pakuv vil-yai: "odor flame," incense coil [author's construction from Vulcan words]

Plebe: an Academy midshipman/cadet just reported for the summer before the first academic year; one who hears constant swearing at and condemnation of, hirself, the better to get hir to conform to all the new rules; one who engages in constant swearing with hir fellows in private moments; one who is obedient to all above hir; the lowest life form at the Academy.

Twenty-four hundred hours: midnight


End file.
